Reading Together 2013 Blog

I can’t thank you enough for selecting The Submission for your Reading Together program, and even more, for the hospitality you showed me. It was wonderful to spend a couple days in a city that combines the warmth of a small town with the vibrancy of a cultural center.

And what readers! I almost fell over when I met a book club who had spent four hours discussing my novel, give or take a little time spent on the carrot cake. And who caught a tiny change I had made between the hardcover and paperback versions. When I spoke, the audience’s energy was palpable and their questions stimulating. And seeing the student art inspired by The Submission and displayed at the library was among the most inspiring experiences I’ve had since publishing my book.

Both the community and the library staff have my admiration and gratitude for doing so much to support readers and writers. The ideas for programming for Reading Together were brilliant, and I wish I could have attended.

Anyone who has struggled with grief may share in the disconnected and disorienting place it can be. The death of a loved one or good friend whether it is impending and expected, or tragic and sudden, can bring emotions that seem impossible to navigate.

This presentation looked at the variety of ways art may serve to navigate that experience and move through grief individually and as a community. The panelists wove a common thread through how art, whether a community memorial or a personal pencil sketch, may facilitate the grieving process.

Death and dying is such a phenomena that human beings no matter how matured are left dumbfounded; art as an expression of grief acknowledges the loss. This may be the first step to acceptance and healing. Art has the ability to acknowledge and share the grieving experience. Studies have shown that communities where people feel connected and supported have higher qualities of life and health. Perhaps there is a correlation between those societies and communities who create memorials to commemorate and thereby acknowledge the grief experienced by those directly affected. In so doing the memorial, the sculpture, the painting, by acknowledging the life and death experienced we are creating greater connection and a deeper sense of community.

~ Norm Hamann Jr, Reading Together Steering Committee

Knowing that not everyone is affected by tragedy in the same way it was important for me to find a balance between sentiment and honor. I feel it’s important for people to be able to mourn in their own time, openly if they need to, and for a community to acknowledge its history and its tragedies.

~ Brent Harris, sculptor, commissioned to create the Eric Zapata Memorial in honor of the Kalamazoo Public Safety officer shot and killed in the line of duty in 2011.

All the internal discussions an individual might have with her/himself about a work of art—I like it, I hate it, I get it, I don’t get it, my kindergartner could do it, it offends me, etc.—have the potential to be heightened when it’s a work of public art. Here in Kalamazoo, classes are taught and conversations – formal and informal, are held on this subject. Who knew?!

And questions arise:

What is art?

What makes art public?

What’s the purpose of public art?

Who is the public?

What input does the public have?

Big questions. The panel (speaking from the members’ own perspectives rather than on behalf of the Public Arts Commission) won’t be providing definitive answers. But it will delve into the questions, and provide some insights into those factors which influence the individual and community perceptions of public art. The moderator will be Sarah Lindley, a practicing visual artist and Associate Professor of Art and Department Chair at Kalamazoo College. She discusses these issues in her classes at K College.

The panel is composed of:

D. Neil Bremer, Executive Director of the Arts Council of Greater Kalamazoo. He is a nationally known consultant in museum management and has been a performer since his undergraduate days at Western Michigan University.

Lisa Brock, Academic Director of the Arcus Center for Social Justice Leadership at Kalamazoo College. She’s a historian with a PhD in African History whose previous experience includes 20 years in two arts institutions in Chicago.

Billie Fischer, an art historian and semi-retired Associate Professor at Kalamazoo College. She’s been a highly regarded member of many local arts activities, including her membership in the Public Arts Commission since its inception in the early 1980s until 2011.

In 1981, a competition was announced for the creating of the Vietnam War Memorial. Over 1,400 artists, architects, architecture firms, sculptors, landscape designers, community groups, and everyday citizens anonymously summited posterboard concept drawings for consideration. A blue ribbon panel of architects, artists, scholars, and historians culled out 1,000 of the entries in the first cut. A day later, they winnowed the entries to 200. After debate and consideration, one submission rose to the top, a minimalist slash of polished black stone wall featuring the names of all the 58,272 soldiers who died in the Vietnam War. The name and address of the selected designer was summoned. One of the professors on the panel recognized the street address of the submitter as undergraduate housing at Yale University. The creator of the winning entry was a 21-year-old architecture student working alone in her dorm room: Maya Lin.

I’m glad I read The Submission before learning the history and controversy surrounding the design and installation of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I better understand Mohammad Khan’s unwavering character in The Submission after watching the 1994 documentary, Maya Lin: A Strong Clear Vision. Lin, diminutive and soft spoken, had to stand up to fierce congressional hearings with her strong, clear vision of a memorial focused on the true costs of war: human lives. Opponents to her design felt her memorial was a black hole in the ground hidden away from an embarrassed nation. Instead, they said it should be towering, pure white with American flags and bald eagles rising. The young Lin calmly stuck to her ideals, insisting that art sometimes pushes the boundaries of tradition. In the end, a compromise came about, not by changing Lin’s original design but by adding a subtle gateway entrance featuring an American flag and Frederick Hart’s sculpture The Three Soldiers.

As an elementary student in the 1970s, I was not taught about the Vietnam War. When I was in middle school in the rural Midwest at the time of the 1981 memorial development, I was unaware of the controversies of the Vietnam Memorial, let alone having an understanding of what that war was about. Since then, I’ve visited the memorial, commonly called The Wall, three times. The first time was with a gaggle of high school classmates. We approached The Wall not from its intended entrance but from a vantage point where I could see the whole wall from a distance. It didn’t move me.

The second time I visited The Wall was on a sightseeing hike as I tried to cover as much ground as possible to experience Washington, DC via some kind of see-all-the-sights checklist.

It wasn’t until my third visit, properly not in a hurry, at night, entering through the traditional entrance that the power of The Wall hit me full force. Such a simple concept: walk along the wall where it starts out knee-high then see it rise above you at the height of the conflict. It had a similar effect on me to walking a meditative labyrinth, slowing casting away our outside world as we step in to the depths of contemplation, nearly swallowed by the power and presence of The Wall. I’ve never been so moved by a memorial.

I encourage you to visit the National Mall to experience Maya Lin’s masterpiece and appreciate this tribute to our fallen citizens and to American values of fairness to all who choose to enter submissions.

I think we can say with a high degree of confidence that the loss of innocence to one degree or another has been the collateral damage for all of us following 9-11. Maybe innocent is not the word that would spring to mind when those around the globe would think to describe the US. But I’m thinking of all the people who left their homes to go to work on that morning in September thinking that as on any other average day, they would return.

In my mind, as I read Amy Waldman’s book, this brutal tearing away of innocence was illustrated through her characters over and over again. We are no longer the Norman Rockwell nation of the four freedoms if we include being tucked in bed with the freedom from fear. This is now a world where a garden isn’t just a garden, hijabs are torn from women’s heads, and even Claire who led the charge for Mo’s design trips up against the complications of that truth in this new world of fear.

Mo grew up believing and living a life as any privileged American young man with great expectations of achievement and the assumption that the constructs of the country we live in “has our back”. Only such a blind spot of innocence would have enabled him to presume he could submit a memorial design judged on its merit alone, irrespective of his new post 9-11 self. Could that pre 9-11 Khan imagine that his design could unleash the spiral of events that would lead to Asma’s stabbing? Is this where we assess guilt and innocence? Or should we lay this at the feet of the media (“The press! They killed her!”) ? Alyssa, making her way as a young scrappy journalist, is telling the story, or any story just to keep her job. Did she have the least idea of what power she had to change the course of lives?

An image that I felt very compelling near the end of the book describes men in prayer (p318) – “rears hoisted in the air and their socked soles exposed had made him wince for their dignity…” the ultimate submission.

Being a child who grew up in the 50’s I can remember being in a similar position in elementary school, under our desks, we all were covering our heads in a futile position against a potential nuclear attack. How innocent we were, and now as we submit to the indignities of travel, peeling off clothing, exposing bare feet and submitting to crucifix style xrays believing this too will keep us safe.

The Reading Together author event kicks of a month of great programming and has always deepened my understanding of the selected book and how and why it came to be. I’m sure this year’s event will not disappoint. Each year I look forward to learning more about the authors writing process and hearing how they talk about and present the book and how their perspective tweaks my own. I also look forward to hearing unexpected details from the author. There is usually some hidden aspect of the publishing process or unforeseen literary challenge that is brought up during the talk that surprises me. These unexpected moments are often elicited by great questions from the audience at the end of the prepared talk and that spontaneity is part of what makes the Q&A one of my favorite parts of each year’s program.

Books

The Submission

A couple people have recently asked how to find and participate in a discussion about The Submission. While we have a calendar of book discussions that are open to the public (and we add more as we learn about them), in actuality, any Reading Together event you may attend in the next 5 to 6 weeks will be an opportunity to discuss the book.

For instance, during Art Hop this Friday, March 1, you’re likely to hear from some local high school students about which themes of the book influenced their digital creations and/or theatrical readings. And of course, Kalamazoo Central High School’s auditorium will be filled on Tuesday, March 5 with people who have read the book and who want to hear directly from author Amy Waldman about what inspired and guided her as she wrote The Submission.

Please join us in welcoming Amy to Kalamazoo and in continuing this month-long book discussion. After all, that’s what Reading Together is all about!

A line late in The Submission points to what I feel may be a great truth: “It’s almost like we fight over what we can’t settle in real life through symbols. They’re our nation’s afterlife” (332). Several separate strands about our country and the world flow through my mind as I ponder this quote.

First, there is so much in life that we can’t control that we try to take super control of tangential things. This seems apparent with the after-Newtown struggles about gun control. We want so much to keep our children safe, and there is no way to ensure their safety, so we fight over who should have guns, as if one answer will take care of the problem. We argue and picket about gun control and mental health, whether or not children should be vaccinated, and what is appropriate for children to eat at what age—and these are all areas that need our attention, but in our hearts we know that none of those things can fully protect our children. In The Submission, the characters struggle with what the 9/11 monument should be, almost as if the perfect monument could in some way erase the tragedy. How do you protect all of the children? How do you make a monument that gives everyone a sense of peace and closure?

In the end, it is really only William who finds closure and that is with a small cairn in a faraway garden. We need symbols. We need closure. We need to feel we’re doing everything we can, but all too often “everything we can,” as in The Submission, falls short of anyone’s lofty goals. And symbols, however needed and important they may be, are certainly not what I hope for when I think of our nation’s afterlife.

Second, along somewhat the same vein, I was caught by the number of times “who wins” is either stated or implied in the novel. This is what I fear more than settling for symbols. Everything has become a contest, and losers do not graciously concede and work together with winners. It is like we say “I may not have won, but I sure can make you sorry you did. If I am not on your side, no idea you have can have merit, and I will oppose you with my every breath.” What we may end up with is a metaphorical plaza of flags, solutions that work for no one. Perhaps it is time to stop taking sides, stop keeping score of winners and losers and do something more meaningful for our national afterlife.

Among the themes of this year’s Reading Together selection is the issue of public art and how communities respond to it. I recently came across this book in our collection and found it to be an interesting parallel. Kammen, a Pulitzer Prize winner for history,addresses the issue of public art from several angles, among them: Monuments, Memorials, and Americanism; Issues of Diversity and Inclusion; and The Dimensions and Dilemmas of Public Sculpture. In fact, one of the works chronicled in this latter chapter is Alexander Calder’s La Grande Vitesse in Grand Rapids, erected in 1969. Kammen describes how the Grand Rapids community went from questioning the size and cost of the sculpture, as well as the artist’s nonexistent relationship with Michigan or even the midwest, to ultimately embracing the work. “Today the piece is truly beloved and has become the stimulus for everything from festivals to children’s design contests. Controversy gave way to an era of good feelings, as least in this instance.”

The book includes several photographs and detailed notes, as well as a comprehensive index.

We are excited to launch the 2013 Reading Together website where you can learn everything you’ll need to know about the events coming up in March and April around the themes of The Submission by Amy Waldman. On this site, you’ll find details about each event, online resources, suggestions for further reading and viewing, and informational blog posts from members of our steering committee. In addition, we’ll maintain an up-to-the-minute calendar of book discussions for anyone looking to participate in one.

We look forward to bringing our community together once again to discuss some important issues including: public art and how it impacts communities; trust and identity; and the influence of media on our perceptions.